


you can move a mountain (you can move me if you want to)

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: growing my own trees while you follow the moon [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Les Amis run an abortion clinic, Rule 63, abortion clinic AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras needs a bit of a breather--it has nothing to do with Grantaire being outside, too, not at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can move a mountain (you can move me if you want to)

Enjolras spends most of her day in the back office—writing articles and working on grants, brainstorming with Courfeyrac on new campaign ideas in between Courfeyrac’s constant slew of phone calls to donors, politicians, and regular patients. She tries to stay in touch with what’s going on with current patients, but the staff is spread so thin as it is, and Courfeyrac is better at it anyway. She’s constantly taking breaks to go into the waiting room and chat with patients, offers to play with their kids during their mother’s appointment with Combeferre or Joly, and Enjolras relies on her—relies on everyone at the clinic, really, to make sure things run smoothly and that their patients never leave unhappy.

But even Enjolras can only stare at her computer screen for so long before a familiar niggling of pressure starts to build up behind her eyes and her left foot is asleep from sitting and working for too long and it’s time for a break. But she doesn’t have time for breaks, and if she needs to get up and stretch her legs and get a bit of natural light, she can at least be useful while she does it. That’s the only reason why she needs to go to the clinic’s front entrance, she tells herself, so she can get her blood flowing while still making sure she’s helping someone, making sure that their patients make it from their cars to the lobby safely.

No other reason at all.

She doesn’t acknowledge the usual cluster of protesters when she steps outside, about two dozen of them, an annoying combination of middle aged women, men over the age of sixty, and a few teenagers who’ve skipped school for the day so they can stand in front of _Atlanta’s Center for Choice_ wearing Bible-verse-emblazoned t-shirts with posters of what are supposed to be “aborted babies” held high. It’s a Tuesday and raining, so the crowd is smaller than usual—on a sunny Saturday they can number in their hundreds, all of them pressing together to get as close as they can while remaining behind the painted yellow line that creates a twenty-five feet buffer zone around the entrance, screaming about sluts and hell and some sort of fucked up love they claim to endorse.

Today’s group is more typical—they’re the regulars, and even though their signs are angry they’re mostly quiet, leaning up against their cars and trying to huddle under a few dark umbrellas.

The rain feels nice against her skin after all morning in her chilly air-conditioned office. It’s hot and humid out, too, and Enjolras feels her goosebumps ebb away as she stands on her tiptoes and stretches her arms high over her head.

“Your baby has a heartbeat!” one of the teenagers shrieks at her, and Enjolras rolls her eyes.

“I work here!” she shouts back, and raises her arm to point up at the sign. “And that isn’t what a fetus looks like. Are you kidding me? That is a _literal infant_ that has just been photoshopped to look—”

“Don’t bother,” a voice comes from her side, and Grantaire gently takes her elbow. “This is why we don’t let you up here most of the time, you know. We don’t need you to rile them up.”

Enjolras scowls up at her, and Grantaire grins. “We need to educate—”

“The people. The masses. I know. I know. But some people don’t want to be educated, and it’s actually been pretty quiet today, so let’s keep it that way.” Grantaire is still holding onto her elbow, her hand rough and warm and wet. She’s soaked from standing in the rain all day, jeans and tank top sticking to her, her hair gone past frizzy and straight to clinging damp around her neck and shoulders. Enjolras manages to tear her eyes away, but somehow forgets to jerk her arm out of Grantaire’s grasp. Grantaire lets her go, anyway. “Needed a break from boss things, boss?”

“Just needed a bit of air. Where’s Bahorel?” Enjolras glances around, looking for them.

“Lunch break. They better bring me back a fucking sandwich. I’m starving.”

Bahorel had been in law school when Combeferre finished her residency and Enjolras and Courfeyrac were a year out of undergrad, and dropped out immediately when the three of them had announced to the rest of their friends their intention to open a women’s health clinic.

 _A reproductive health clinic for people of all genders?_ Bahorel had asked loudly from the back of the room, one eyebrow raised and grinning, while Enjolras nodded, cringing at her own poor choice of words.

Bahorel was the clinic’s original escort, on payroll because there were no other volunteers to do the job, until they started bringing around their friend from kickboxing class. Who turned out to be Grantaire—she came every day as well, hungover more often than not and trailing after Bahorel because _I don’t have anything better to do, I guess, and Bahorel keeps telling me I might get to punch someone_ and Enjolras had finally decided to put her on the payroll, too. The regular paycheck keeps both of them around, and ultimately Enjolras trusts them both in dealing with both patients and protesters more than she would a random volunteer that they might get once every few weeks. Grantaire had been an irritating presence, at first, loudly declaiming all attempts at policy change and public education—but a reliable one, nonetheless.

There’s an awkward silence between them. The rain shows no sign of stopping, and Enjolras feels her hair getting damp and sticking to her scalp. She _should_ go back inside now, go back inside before she gets so drenched that she tracks water into the waiting room and then all over her office—there’s an article she has to finish writing for NARAL about running an abortion clinic in the Deep South, and she’d like to get it done by this afternoon. But Grantaire’s fingertips are starting to prune and she smells like clove cigarettes and Enjolras needs to spend more time working at the face of the clinic instead of just behind the scenes anyway, so she can stay outside a little longer.

“If Bahorel forgets your sandwich, we can go out for lunch when they get back,” Enjolras hears herself say.

Grantaire gapes at her for a moment, and Enjolras shifts uncomfortably.

“I mean. If you want. I’m going to bring my laptop for work stuff. I’d like to get your opinion on this—”

She’s interrupted by a loud laugh from Grantaire. “You mean you actually want my opinion on something? As opposed to my usual unsolicited rebuttals against whatever you’re saying?”

Enjolras tenses and puts her hands on her hips, the line of her mouth going tight. “I actually think you could provide some valuable input on—”

“Relax, relax.” Grantaire waves a hand. “I’d be happy to. Even if Bahorel brings me lunch. We can go for coffee.”

“Good,” Enjolras says. And then again. “Good. Thank you.”

“Anything for the _Cause_ ,” Grantaire says dramatically. Enjolras opens her mouth to chide her, but then Grantaire is nudging their shoulders together in a movement that is almost fond, and Enjolras finds it in herself to just shut up and nudge her back.


End file.
